


And The Blood On Your Hands Isn't yours

by ghostboi



Series: Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abusive John Winchester, Alcoholic John, Crazy Dean, Dark Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Obsession, POV Multiple, Possessive Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Serial Killer Dean, SerialKiller!Dean Muse does what he wants, first kill, pre-serial killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Winchester is an asshole who should never put his hands on Sam, ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Blood On Your Hands Isn't yours

**Author's Note:**

> A pre-serial killer moving into first kill kind of thing. Ended a little differently than I had planned (because apparently our boys do what they want and screw the planning).  
> Starts as Sam's POV, ends with Dean's. Ah.. no smut in this one. Sorry! More of a 'fill.in.the.blanks' type of piece.
> 
> [Title from something by Coheed and Cambria]

He had just put on a pot of coffee (extra strong this morning) and was about to move away from the counter, when a pair of arms slipped around him. He wasn’t expecting it and yelped in surprise.  
Sam elbowed his older brother as he heard Dean’s amused chuckle in his ear.

“Happy birthday, baby boy,” the older teen murmured, momentarily tightening his arms around the younger Winchester.  
Sam grinned over his shoulder at him; he had no more replied with a “Thanks,” when their father entered the kitchen.

“Where’s my coffee?” John Winchester seated himself heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, eyes bloodshot and hair ..well, basically a disaster, if you asked Sam.

“Almost ready,” the younger of the brothers tried to slip out of Dean’s arms to reach for a coffee cup; he paused, glancing at the other, as Dean held tight. His older brother winked at him – Sam flushed slightly and ducked his head to hide his smile – before releasing him.

“What’s with the hugfest?” John grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. The man was hungover again (hell, he was still half-drunk) after a night of downing whiskey and passing out on the couch. 

“It’s Sam’s birthday,” Dean informed him as he took the coffee cup from Sam’s hand and filled it with coffee. He crossed and set the cup down in front of their father, whom stared at him blankly for a minute. 

“Huh,” John shrugged a shoulder, “Old enough to get a job and bring in some fucking money, then.”

“He’s fourteen.”  
Sam saw the tension in his brother’s shoulders, didn’t miss the fist clenched at his side. He bit his lip, glanced to his father, and was somewhat relieved to see that the man hadn’t noticed Dean’s reaction.

“So?” John sipped the coffee, grimaced, “Old enough to sell his ass on a street corner if he can’t get a real job.” 

Sam rushed forward to grab Dean’s arm as his brother took a step toward John, tension and rage etched in every inch of his body. He tugged the older teen’s arm and whispered, “Dean..” Dean shot him a glance – his green eyes were filled with fury – before looking back to their father.

John hadn’t missed his reaction that time, and the man smirked. “You want another go at me, son? Getting your ass handed to you the other night wasn’t enough?” The man pushed away from the table and stood, his balance unsteady, “Come on then.” 

Sam tightened his hold on Dean’s arm, and his brother shot him another look. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched, but he relented to Sam’s unspoken request and stayed where he was. They looked to John as their father crossed the kitchen to open a cabinet. He pulled a pint of whiskey from it and opened it before turning to look at them. He took a long pull from the bottle, re-capped it, and ran his bloodshot, blue gaze over Sam. His eyes flicked to Dean, and he shook his head and half-stumbled out of the kitchen, presumably to get ready for work.

Sam raised his eyes to Dean as his brother turned to face him. “He’s a piece of shit,” the older teen growled, “You don’t listen to him.” “I know,” Sam nodded; his eyes slipped closed as Dean raised a hand and brushed a knuckle down his cheek.

“If he does anything, says anything, you tell me, Sam. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“I will,” he promised, fingers reaching out to snag Dean’s shirt and tug it. His brother shot him a sudden, warm smile and covered Sam’s hand with his own.

“Get dressed,” the older teen instructed him, “I took off work today. Let’s get out of here and celebrate your birthday.”

 

It was two days after his birthday, and Sam was sitting on the couch, reading through a book for school. He was immersed in a chapter about Alexander the Great when he heard the front door open. He raised his eyes as his father entered – stumbled, more appropriately – into the living room. The man shot him a glance as he headed for the kitchen: Sam heard him moving around in the other room a minute later. 

He was back into the life of Alexander when his father entered the living room a short while later. The man crossed the room, pint of whiskey in hand, and dropped down on the other end of the couch. Sam hesitated a moment before raising his eyes to the other: the man was staring at a show on the television, whiskey pint in one hand.

“Did you get off work early today?” he asked, dropping his gaze back to his book. The other man replied only “Yep,” and Sam nodded, trying to focus on Alexander again. He glanced at his father from the corner of his eye as the man sat the whiskey bottle down on the floor, then snatched up the remote to change the channel. 

Sam raised his eyes a short while later as John asked suddenly,  
“What are you reading?”

“Alexander the Great,” he answered, casting the man a glance. His father snorted and shook his head. 

“Waste of time,” the man remarked, snagging up the whiskey bottle to take a swig of its contents before setting it down on the floor again, “You’ll never use that crap when you’re out of school. Hell, you’ll probably drop out soon as you’re old enough.”

“I won’t,” he protested, “Dean says I should go to college.”

“Dean says,” John mocked with a sneer, reaching over and pulling the paperback out of his hand. The man slung it across the room – it bounced off the wall and landed on the floor – before asking with a smirk, “What’s Dean say about that?”

Sam bit his bottom lip to hold back his smart-aleck retort. He glared at his father as the man reminded, “Dean’s not your damn father.”

“More of a father than you,” he muttered beneath his breath. He knew pissing John off when he was drinking (and he had, apparently, been drinking for a while today) was a risk: the man had a horrible temper. Still – Dean _was_ more of a caregiver than John had been or would ever be. His eyes shifted to John as the man, having caught part of his words, demanded, 

“What the hell did you just say?”

Quick thinking had gotten him out of tough spots over the years, including a few with John. He gave the man a bit of a smile and lied, “I said you’re right. He’s not my father. You are.” John relaxed and nodded, eyes flicking to the television.

Sam bit back a sigh and pushed himself off the couch to go retrieve his book. As he was standing, his foot hit the bottle of whiskey on the floor and knocked it over. He watched, wide-eyed, as the amber contents began spilling out onto the wood floor. 

“What the fuck, Sam?” John sat up and snatched up the bottle of whiskey, “Watch what you’re fucking doing, you stupid shit.” 

Sam averted his gaze and muttered a “sorry”, though he really wasn’t. He was sorry that he had pissed the man off, because John tended to get physical when he was angry (with Dean, usually, because his big brother always, _always_ intervened when John was pissed at Sam), but he wasn’t sorry about the alcohol. His hazel gaze flicked to John as his father muttered aloud,

“Ought to take that out of your ass like I do your goddamn brother’s.” 

“What?” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper, and John sneered at him. 

“Bastard deserves everything I give him.” John said the words like they were nothing, raising the pint to take a swig from it.

Sam knew of some of the things their father did to Dean when the man was drunk and pissed. He had witnessed beatings, he had seen bruises. He had heard things through the thin walls, and he had held his brother through several of Dean’s nightmares. Their father was a father in title only: he was horrible to them, he was cruel and he was a drunk. Now he was going to throw those words out so carelessly?

“Fuck you.” The words escaped him before he realized it, fists clenched at his sides. He wasn’t sorry he said them, though, and he wouldn’t take them back. Not ever. “Dean’s more than you’ll ever be. Fuck you.”

Fifteen seconds later, he found himself shoved back against the wall with his father in his face. John Winchester was not a small man, and Sam found himself shrinking away from the strong scent of whiskey and the man’s anger. 

“What the fuck did you say to me?”

He swallowed hard, fighting down his fear, and said again, “Dean’s more than you are, so fuck you.”

The fist to his stomach knocked the breath out of him, the pain caused tears to spring up in his eyes. He would have doubled over from it but he was pinned against the wall. 

“You have one chance to apologize,” John warned him.

Sam raised his eyes to the man, took in the anger etching his features. Apologizing _might_ get him out of this. He met the angry blue gaze as he whispered, slightly breathless, “Fuck you.”

The next blow caught him across the face. It was a hard strike and it stunned him, causing points of light to flash in front of his eyes. The odd thought that he knew now what ‘seeing stars’ meant crossed his mind as pain blossomed along the side of his face. 

 

When their father had decided they were going to stay in this hellhole of a town for a while, Dean had picked up a job at a local garage. He had known how to change oil, check batteries, and do minor repairs, and the garage owner had given him a shot. Dean liked the job: it was dirty work, but he liked tinkering with cars and he had the opportunity to learn more as he worked.

Dean stepped onto the porch of the old house they were renting after a full day at the garage. He was reaching for the knob when a sound from inside the house carried to him, and he froze. 

Sam.

Dean threw opened the door and ran into the house, the cry of pain he had just heard – his brother’s cry of pain - spurring him to move quickly. He rushed into the living room in time to see John drive a fist into Sam’s stomach, and rage blackened the edges of his vision. He was across the room almost before he processed the situation.

John stumbled backward in surprise as Dean grabbed his hair and jerked him away from Sam. When his father turned to face him, he drove a fist into the man’s face. John went down to one knee; when he raised his head, blood streaming from his mouth and nose, Dean hit him again. The man lost his balance and fell over sideways, then stared at them from the floor.

“You _ever_ touch him again and I will fucking kill you!” Dean growled, placing himself between their father and Sam. John only blinked up at him, raising a hand to his bleeding mouth. Dean wanted to kick his face in. The need to do it was consuming him – this motherfucker had hurt his Sammy – and he took a step toward the other man.

“Dean.”  
Sam’s whispered plea cut through his rage, and he turned to face his brother. The older teen’s features darkened more as he raised a hand and brushed his thumb across Sam’s cut lip. Sam hesitated and stepped closer; Dean felt him sigh in relief as he pulled the smaller teen into his arms. 

“Touch him again,” he threw over his shoulder at John, voice little more than a growl, “and see what happens.” 

Both ignored John’s retort of “fuck you” – the man still hadn’t gotten up. Too drunk, he figured, to take on someone who might actually kick his ass. His brother nodded as he murmured, “Come on, Sammy,” and guided him out of the living room.

 

The following morning found the older brother still awake. He was sitting on Sam’s bed, next to his sleeping brother and between Sam and the bedroom door. His rage toward the man who called himself their father hadn’t dissipated; if anything, it had only strengthened as the hours ticked by. Every time he looked at Sam and saw the bruise on the other’s cheek, the cut lip, he wanted to stomp John Winchester into the ground. His eyes fell to his shaking hands, and he clenched them into fists. 

That desire that sometimes filled him, the urge to put someone else in pain and watch the life fade from their eyes, was eating at him. It was like a living presence, a physical _need_ , crawling up from his stomach and into his chest, worming its way into his head.

He leaned his head back against the wall, listening as he heard movement from another part of the house. His eyes shifted to Sam, and the fury that had been held at bay all night came creeping to the surface again.

He would be dead in the ground before he would allow anyone to ever hurt his boy again.

 

John also worked on cars, at a garage across town from where Dean worked. He liked to get started early so that he could have a little quiet time, before his co-workers came in and brought the noise of the day with them.

Dean knew this about the man – John had told him countless times over the years. He suspected it also had to do with the fact that, the earlier he finished and left, the earlier he could start drinking. 

Today, John was working on a car for one of his garage’s clients at the man’s home. Dean had that information because John had scribbled “Jack, mustang, replace brakes and fuel line leaking, 314 Oak Street” on a piece of paper, which he had taped to the fridge.

The sun hadn’t been up long when Dean slipped into the side door of the garage. He had followed John when the man left the house, and had spent the last half hour outside, waiting. Now he paused inside the door, listening: the sound of a radio and the clinking of tools carried to him. He crossed the concrete floor, careful to keep his footsteps light so his boots didn’t make a lot of noise. 

John was beneath a Ford Mustang, working, when Dean found him. The front tires were off the car, allowing access to the brakes, and it was jacked up so that John could slide beneath it. Dean watched in silence for several minutes – he could see only the lower half of his father’s legs as the man worked beneath the car.

When John slid out from beneath the car to retrieve a tool, he saw Dean and let out a startled curse. “Damnit, Dean,” the man sat up and ran a hand through his messy hair, “you scared the hell out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Wanted to watch you work,” Dean answered, hands shoved in his jacket pocket, “See if I could learn anything.” 

John shot him a frown and a look of exasperation. “Could have let me know you were here. Just.. stay out of my way.” He nodded at Dean’s promise of ‘Will do’, and grabbed several wrenches and slid back beneath the car.  
Dean watched his father’s legs for a minute; he knelt and picked up a wrench as his father reached a hand out and instructed, “Hand me that torque, will you?” He placed it in John’s hand, watching as the man pulled his arm back beneath the car.

Dean stood and moved to the jack, which was propping the vehicle. He stared at it for a moment, head tilted slightly. That rage which he had carried with him throughout the night was crawling its way up his throat; he could feel his hands shaking again. 

“Why’d you hit him?” 

“What?” he father asked, voice muffled from his position beneath the car.

“Sam,” Dean said, anger tracing his voice, “Why did you hit him?”

“Why is he a smart-ass?” came the retort, “He had it coming.”

Dean tapped the jack with his booted foot – his vision was darkening around the edges as his head screamed for him to give in to that _need_ to destroy something. 

“You don’t get to do that to him,” he growled, loud enough for John to hear. He kicked the jack again, lightly, as the car shuddered minutely. He knelt beside the car to look beneath it, saw his father glaring in his direction.

“Damnit Dean,” the man’s eyes shifted back to the fuel line, “Be careful, will you? And I’ll do whatever the hell I please, to both of you. If I want to go home and beat his ass, I’ll do it. Next time you interfere, I’ll beat yours.” Dean could see the sneer on John’s features as the other man glanced at him again and taunted, “Might make him my bitch, just like you are.”

“Hmm,” Dean stood, stared down at the concrete floor. His eyes focused on the jack that was supporting the car’s weight: a hard kick at its base knocked it free, and the car came crashing down, the sound of screeching metal and a cut off scream echoing throughout the space.

Dean exited the garage, hands shoved in his jacket pockets and a smile touching his mouth, even before the blood came trickling out from beneath the Mustang’s body.

 

Next to Sam, the Impala was the only good thing his father had ever given him. The man had handed him the keys months earlier, when he turned 18, told him “Don’t wreck it”, and had climbed into his recently-purchased, used pickup truck.

That beautiful black car was his baby: next to Sam, it was the most important thing in the world to him.

He was behind the wheel and driving her down the highway, Sam in the front passenger seat, by the time the police knocked at their rental’s front door to inform any next of kin of a terrible accident.

Dean shot a glance at his brother as the car barreled down the highway; Sam was staring out the passenger window, watching the passing scenery in the morning light. His little brother glanced suddenly at him, studied him in silence for several seconds. Dean glanced ahead at the road, back at his brother.

“Just you and me now?” Sam asked, “You meant it?”  
Dean nodded yes, repeated the words, “Just you and me now, Sammy.”

“Did you kill him?”

The older Winchester stared at the road ahead for a minute. He glanced at Sam again, found that hazel gaze on him. His own gaze was sincere as he answered, “I’ll do anything I have to do, Sam, to keep you safe. _Anything_.”

He relaxed slightly, relief touching him, as his brother slid across the seat to press against his side. He leaned forward briefly to turn on the radio before sliding an arm around the other to hold him close.

They passed the “You Are Now Leaving Buffalo, Wyoming” sign without looking back.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted the cutting of throats, Dean decided to just do it his own way and stage it like an accident. Contrary Dean.


End file.
